Family
by NutsAboutComics
Summary: A short fic upon the history of the White Queen, a time when she had no other guise but herself, a story of Emma Grace Frost. Ratings and reviews are appreciated, as are comments and remarks.


The rays of the morning sun pierced through the barely opaque lace of the dressings that hung upon the three full length windows as if they never once existed, providing ample ambiance lighting to illuminate the space within. The room was just as ornately decorated as it were furnished, the walls lathed in the most exquisite mixtures of organically pestled paints, casting a warm red ochre color scheme that seemingly radiated heat off it's surface whilst adorned with pieces of contemporary modern art by famed painters that pioneered upon that specific field. Baroque art installations were deemed taboo in the space, since the lashings of nude figures instilled upon it were condemned as a form of sacrilege in the eyes of a toddler, tainting upon his or her innocence. The art pieces by Picasso and Van Gough were procured and displayed in the room were to spark imagination and creativity, as well as breed a sense of culture into the mentality of the child that dwelt within the confines of it's walls, still learning to grasp upon the entirety known as life.

Though what did Emma know of back then when presented with such items of incalculable value? Her immature mind could barley comprehend with the haphazardly painted shapes and colours of Van Gough's _The Scream_, only knowing to fear it's proportionally incorrect representation of a screaming male, just like any other child would when laying their eyes upon the famed painting. Tiny fingers grasping upon the plush body of a teddybear, the brunette haired girl sat squat upon the veneered surface of the oak flooring that spread across the expanse of her bedroom, encompassing every inch of it's surface without fail. Her blue hued eyes sparkled with a childlike glee, being able to blanket herself in the solace of her own mind with the world of make-believe and fantasy, where her inanimate companions in life were more than what they appeared in the eyes of skeptical adults who had outgrown such amateurish takes upon overcoming the silence of loneliness.

It was the 1980s after all. The mid-point of cultural births and exploration, where developed parts of the world began their trek upon social expansion and understanding, creating sectors upon their varied habitual traits and preferences. No longer were goths the sole dominions as victims of the law in terms of violating the social taboos imposed upon the world's citizens. The punk movement, with their stylized and heavily dyed hair, skinheads and their notoriety of causing racial conflicts as well as the marijuana crazed hippies were all part of the creation of social classification and labeling. Every aspect of a person's life can be used as a mean to claim their involvement in a specific cultural uprising. Like wearing batik print shirts? You belong with the hippies and their bandanas. Black nail polish for no specific occasion, other than for ornamental reasons? You're a goth. The world was gradually spiraling downwards into a clash of social classes, which in turn will purportedly erupt into a war of a massive scale, bringing sheer existence to it's knees. Though that general assumption at the last bit is merely coined by religious hermits who have spent their years withering away in attempt to gain knowledge upon the eventual close of humanity's chapter in the book that is history.

Perhaps that would explain the constant paranoia that Winston and Hazel Frost had upon their own children, and how they strove to such great lengths to prevent them and their pure innocence from being ravaged at and reduced to tatters by modern day society. What they did was wise in their eyes, foolish to others. Isolating their children since birth from the world, they remained adamant upon keeping them in the dark upon the outside world, filling their young minds with education well beyond their years. Their eldest daughter, Adrienne had already mastered four languages at the tender age of 11 and had a near perfect recollection of most, if not all of the history of Britain, from the many petty squabbles waged between France up to the Second World War. Many friends and associates who have ever had the rare chance of being introduced to the children by their parents were never failed to be impressed by their prim, aristocratic airs and impeccable grooming. The perfect children, as they may describe the Frost siblings as. They seemed to be able to do no bad, and have their innocence and purity preserved until their dying breaths. It was an admirable feat for those who were inclined in childcare for Hazel and Winston to raise their children with such standards, never once to have failed. They assumed for the siblings to lead perfect lives, happy, active, healthy, just buzzing with the spirit that burns bright in the soul of a child. As it should be.

But just like the surface of a finely polished piece of silverware, no amount of rubbing alcohol could do away the dents that were otherwise looked past due to their insignificance. In comparison to the intricately carved detailing upon the piece of silver, who would bring their attention to the odd bump and dent? See only for the bigger picture, as people would say. Sometimes, sacrifices are necessary along the path to perfection. Bridges will be burnt, but the cost was worth paying in the end after all.

Or was it?

Emma had an otherwise admirable and enviable life, if it were not for her childhood being gradually chipped away by the cooperate structure of her household. There was no affections held in the Frost residence between the family. It was a constant battlefield, a warzone in which one sibling was often pitted against another in an all out battle for the mere attention of their parents. The motto of 'hunt or be hunted' was constantly applied upon the lives of the children, even though some may see it as bit too extreme. But the words nevertheless carried much truth in them. Emma didn't enjoy the presents, the privileged education or the stately home. And why would she after all, when none of those could make up for the things that were snatched away from her before she could barley bring herself to object?

All she had left to reconcile upon at the end of the day, where her tired, battered self would curl up in bed, was a family of make-believe, where Teddy, Dolly and the characters from her Disney books would be what she had left to look back upon when her days as a little girl came to a close.

_'Would you like to share your story, Winnie?'_

This was her family.


End file.
